Word Count: 200 (All right, I lose at drabbling.) For: skuf, of course!
***** Doodles adorn the margins of a passable homework assignment: a huge nose and mop of crudely-inked hair, a snake with beady black eyes, a stick-figure caricature glowering comically.
"Ron, why d'you spend all your time drawing SNAPE on your essays?"
Startled, ink splattering, Ron looks up. "What, you don't think he deserves it?" He makes his voice scornful, but Harry waves both hands in easy dismissal.
No, it's just, don't you think it's a little... weird?" He points at the sketches. "Most people draw little hearts and names, initials-forever, that sort of thing."
Ron's mouth falls open -- does Harry know? But Harry laughs, and pokes Ron in the forehead. "You should see your face!"
"Yeah," Ron laughs, weakly. "Imagine. Snape!" Blessedly, Harry wanders off, then, and Ron looks down at his homework, his quill, the freckled backs of his hands. He can imagine them touching skin like parchment, the way a sinuous spine would curve like a serpent beneath them. But he can also imagine the scowl, the venomous words, the dismissal. He does not have enough courage for this.
Still, the inkstain on his thumb is as black as Snape's hair. It’s as close as he’ll ever come.
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branchandroot
One drabble! (Sort of.)
Date: 2005-04-20 06:02 pm (UTC)For:
*****
Doodles adorn the margins of a passable homework assignment: a huge nose and mop of crudely-inked hair, a snake with beady black eyes, a stick-figure caricature glowering comically.
"Ron, why d'you spend all your time drawing SNAPE on your essays?"
Startled, ink splattering, Ron looks up. "What, you don't think he deserves it?" He makes his voice scornful, but Harry waves both hands in easy dismissal.
No, it's just, don't you think it's a little... weird?" He points at the sketches. "Most people draw little hearts and names, initials-forever, that sort of thing."
Ron's mouth falls open -- does Harry know? But Harry laughs, and pokes Ron in the forehead. "You should see your face!"
"Yeah," Ron laughs, weakly. "Imagine. Snape!" Blessedly, Harry wanders off, then, and Ron looks down at his homework, his quill, the freckled backs of his hands. He can imagine them touching skin like parchment, the way a sinuous spine would curve like a serpent beneath them. But he can also imagine the scowl, the venomous words, the dismissal. He does not have enough courage for this.
Still, the inkstain on his thumb is as black as Snape's hair. It’s as close as he’ll ever come.